Vibrations
by 3.1415926535897932384626433383
Summary: The most beautiful sound John had ever heard was a certain consulting detective playing his violin. So when John became deaf, it was almost too much for him to bear.
1. Chapter 1

The most beautiful sound John had ever heard was a certain consulting detective playing his violin. Sherlock could make him feel anything he wanted through the music. He could leave John aching with a wordless but mournful loss. He could make him want to stand up and move around. He could and did make John feel as though the world was spinning, just by moving his fingers and hands a certain way on a certain instrument. Sherlock Holmes, in short, was a master violinist who could draw out the most amazing music John could ever conceive.

When John lost his hearing, that was almost the first thing he thought of. The idea of never hearing that sound again was almost too much for him. The realization of how truly hard life would be for him didn't even hit until Sherlock mentioned that he would teach John to read lips so that he could get by a little better every day.

The way that he lost his hearing was terribly unsatisfying, to add insult to injury. He had lived through Afghanistan; he had literally chased the lowest of the low down the darkest parts of London for years before it happened. To lose it in such a manner as this was almost embarrassing.

One night he woke up on the floor, an intense feeling of terror overwhelming him, until he came to all the way and untangled himself from the sheets that tied him up. He didn't think much of the incident then, other than the nasty bump on his head, and it was easy enough to fall back to sleep, but the next morning was another story.

John woke up on April 18, 2013 completely deaf. He woke up to Sherlock hitting his forehead with a rather large book and almost jumping up and down in glee. Sherlock was saying something, he could see his lips moving excitedly, but he couldn't quite hear what. John sat up and rubbed his eyes and ears, supposing that he was still too half-asleep to hear.

A minute later, he realized he was deaf.

He tried saying Sherlock's name a few times, then a bit louder, until finally he was shouting and screaming at the top of his lungs in a complete panic and he still couldn't hear anything. He stumbled out of bed to where Sherlock was standing in the living room, staring at John and mid-violin solo. He couldn't hear the strings on the violin being plucked.

Sherlock's lips moved. He couldn't hear a word.

He ducked into the kitchen and grabbed a heavy metal pan, smacking his hand against it. His hand turned right and hurt quite a bit, but he still couldn't hear anything.

He started smacking his hand against the counter, the table, the wall, anything that should have made a sound when his hand hit it. And all the while, as he panicked and shouted and destroyed the kitchen,

John still couldn't hear anything.

Sherlock grabbed his hand just before he hit a glass, which was probably a good idea, but John didn't realize that in his terror and flailed at Sherlock. Sherlock dragged him over to the couch and dropped him on it, holding him down until John had calmed down a good deal. His lips moved again, and John was finally calm enough to say "I can't hear. I can't hear anything."


	2. Chapter 2

Quick A/N - Thanks to everyone who reviewed this! It's really encouraging to write more, haha. And sorry about these crazy short chapters, I know each one is only a page long.

oOo

At the hospital, they gave John a long list of words that he knew he should understand as a doctor about what had happened. The only one that stuck in his mind was "Permanent." He was John Watson; he was a doctor; and from now until forever he was deaf.

Sherlock handled everything, which was a relief for John, who wasn't handling anything well at the moment. He even managed to not shout too much at the doctor who proclaimed him unfixable instead of simply incurable. He hailed a cab to get home, and he paid the cabbie instead of leaving it to John like he usually did.

John was in a bad state. He couldn't quite believe that he would never hear again. His world was strangled in cotton and he couldn't help double checking every few minutes to see if he just had a head cold - he didn't.

He stayed in the flat for almost three days doing absolutely nothing but stare at the wall until Sherlock decided that enough was enough and dragged him out to Angelo's for lunch to get him back in the real world. John thought that was a little funny, since Sherlock had done the exact same thing for even longer periods of time. Sherlock didn't agree.

John wouldn't even order off of the menu. To do so would require speaking, and he didn't want to be extremely loud and startle the whole restaurant or be do quiet Angelo couldn't hear him. He pointed to what he wanted and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

While they were waiting for their food, Sherlock pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.

"Stop that. You can talk. You're being ridiculous. " John glared at him.

"I spent the last three days learning sign language and now it's your turn too. You have to learn to do things and it's very hard to teach you or to find someone else who will if you insist on writing everything down." John's scowl lessened a little.

"Fine, teach me," he wrote back. "But don't you dare be condescending. I've had enough this week to deal with." Sherlock didn't even dignify that with an answer, instead writing 'hi,' pointing at the word, then waving at John. John nodded. Sherlock waved again and John gave him a thumbs up.

"Your turn." John glared at him again, but after a moment he gave up and waved back.

"Higher. You're too low. It's by your cheek." John waved again and Sherlock nodded, satisfied. It was a start.


	3. Chapter 3

Looking back, John couldn't quite remember the next few weeks, or anyways not the details. He recalled a flurry of hand motions, what felt like almost nonstop sign language. It started out simple, with him making very basic sentences, until Sherlock made fun of him for speaking in baby talk. After that, if John didn't know a word, he looked it up. As much as he hated to admit it, he learned much faster after that - not that he would say that to Sherlock of course. His ego was swollen enough as it was, John figured.

Harry came to visit him for a day a month after it had happened. She brought a bottle with her, and by the end of the day she was fairly drunk and had to be taken home, but she showed up, which John honestly hadn't expected. It turned out that Harry knew some sign language ("I had a girlfriend that had a brother that was deaf like you, Johnny, picked it up when he came to stay with us") and although she was no expert she was able to converse with John, sort of - enough. Anyways, she was able to make herself understood.

It took John a very long time to even begin to adjust to not being able to hear. The loss of such a major sense so suddenly was almost crippling, worse than when he'd been shot even, and he certainly wouldn't have gotten over it without Sherlock's help. He didn't know how to say how much it meant to him afterwards to have Sherlock there to drag him to Speedy's when he hadn't left the apartment in a while and help him learn to do the simplest things again, from crossing the road without listening to just figuring out when the kettle was ready without being able to hear it whistle.

Eventually he could get around London day to day without too much trouble. He hadn't gone back to the clinic, of course. He honestly doubted he ever would. How could he do his job without being able to talk to the patient?

He expressed that to Sherlock on one of his darker days, when he felt useless and crippled and empty. Sherlock was not impressed.

"You can still talk, John. It's not like communication on your side is a problem," he said with a somewhat dismissive flick of his hands. "Think."

"Of what?" John had signed. "It's no good to be able to talk to them if they can't talk back."

"As ever, you are not thinking. It's not that far of a leap from speaking to lip reading. You just need to be more attentive." Thus began John's education in lip reading, which was surprisingly easy. There were more than a few embarrassing errors in the bringing but John picked it up quickly. He even learned to order for himself again, which really was an accomplishment. It's the small things that count in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

Weeks later, John woke up in the middle of the night, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. He still had those nightmares occasionally - blood and terror and men who were missing arms and legs and who screamed and screamed. He tried to forget, but just when he thought he was free from what he remembered, just when he hadn't thought about that for weeks, they'd come back. Sometimes he thought they didn't want to be forgotten, those memories - but that was ridiculous.

He sat up, his hands trembling, and took a few deep breaths. When he felt ready to stand, he left for the kitchen - a glass of water was just what he needed.

In the living room, Sherlock was playing the violin. John hadn't even seen that violin in weeks - not since the day he'd first been deaf. Sherlock didn't even notice him walking in, he was so intent on what he was doing. His fingers moved gently on the neck, moving from string to tring, the bow moving in sync with his fingers. John could see the strings vibrating, could almost feel the music, but he couldn't hear it.

The realization that he would never hear it again crashed over him as though the ceiling was falling in on him, choking him with its dust and almost knocking him down. He had known it, of course, known he would never hear any music, never hear Sherlock playing again, but it hadn't hit him until now.

He would never hear those haunting notes, never hear how Sherlock felt when he couldn't find the words to say what he meant. He would never be woken up at three in the morning by a screeching, frustrated ratch across the strings that meant Sherlock couldn't find the right notes. And he missed it. He hadn't realized how badly he would miss it.

And still Sherlock played on.

He could hear, he could make this music. He was surrounded by it so fully that he still hadn't noticed John, who was now sitting in a chair near the kitchen table. He was completely enraptured, completely swallowed up by the music he could make that John could probably throw something at him and he wouldn't notice if it bounced off his forehead.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped. He must have finished, John thought hollowly. Sherlock turned to look at John. He didn't seem the least bit surprised to find him standing in the kitchen all of a sudden. Carefully, he placed the violin back in its case, loosed the hairs on the bow and placed that in the case, and closed the whole thing up, setting it back in its corner.

Good evening, John, he signed.

Hi.

What are you doing up this late? Aren't you normally asleep or something?

Yes, John replied. I... I woke up and came to get a drink.

Where is it? Sherlock asked.

Where's what?

Your drink, signed Sherlock, a tad impatiently.

I haven't gotten it yet, John told him.

Obviously, Sherlock said, with an ironic flick of his fingers. Why not?

You know why, signed John.

Nope.

Yeah, you do, John said, his hands twisting irritatedly.

You had to face it sometime, John, say it yourself. I'm not going to stop playing my violin.

And why should you? John asked him, angry all of a sudden. It wasn't directed at Sherlock, or anybody really, but he felt angry all the same. Just because I can't enjoy it doesn't mean you shouldn't.

Can't you? Sherlock signed with the breezy air of someone who has all the answers.

You know I can't. I can't hear, Sherlock, John said sarcastically.

You're sure you can't enjoy the music? Sherlock said. Positive, even?

If you have something to say, say it. It's 2 45 and I'm going back to bed in a few minutes. John was irritated now. Sherlock rarely acted like this without reason, but at the moment John didn't have the patience to play his games.

Have you considered the vibrations? Every stringed instrument has them, you know.

What on earth does that mean?

Come here and see. Sherlock got his violin out again and placed the bow on its strings, to all appearances about to play. He waited for John to come over impatiently.

When John stepped over there, Sherlock grabbed his hand with the hand also holding the bow. John tried to jerk his hand away but Sherlock was ready for him; he held on tightly and glared at John until John relaxed. Then he placed John's hand on the edge of the violin, on its top.

When he played, John could feel it. It wasn't quite the same thing as hearing it, it wasn't perfect... but it was more than he had ever dreamed he could do again.

He could feel it, and it was amazing.


End file.
